


Hands

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Reimbodied Fingon and Maedhros reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Maedhros is reimbodied, Fingon travels to the Gardens of Lórien to bring him back to Tirion. To heal the divide that separates them, they must first try to come to terms with all that has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

The first thing he saw was redness, the bright, pulsating warmth of his own living blood, coursing through his eyelids. He knew, somehow, that he was lying down. _Knowing_  was an improvement, he thought vaguely. But an improvement over what, he was not quite certain. Whatever had been before, he supposed, although the more his awareness grew and he tried to remember, the faster his immediate past seemed to slip away, like sand from a closed fist. He could feel his body tilting strangely, and a slight pressure at the centre of his chest, as if someone was pressing down lightly with a hand. But it felt wrong, cooler than a hand should be, and somehow seeming to  _sing_. A hand that sang? Some part of his mind protested that that could not be right. But no, he realised, it was not the hand that was singing, but its owner. The singing was not the usual kind of sound, but seemed to echo inside his head, the song issuing from the hand on his chest, shooting through his body and knitting the spirit to the bones and muscles. Strength began to seep back into the limbs that had until now been slack and motionless.

The song had words now, a strange language that he could not understand, but which nevertheless seemed somehow familiar. But before the memory could come, the voice suddenly stopped, the pressure lifting from his chest at the same moment. He did not know why, but he got the impression that the owner of the hand (had it been a hand?) had gone. His mind floated freely. There was another voice now, although this one had a definite source, somewhere above him and to the side. The syllables pressed into his awareness, but left no meaning save a light tug of something familiar. Now he could feel hands again, although now they felt more like hands should feel, gently warm with a slight roughness at the pads of the fingers. And instead of pressing on his chest, they clasped his own hands.

_Wait… his own hands?_

Yes, he realised, he definitely had two hands. Had he only dreamed having just one? But no, it had been so, he was certain of it. He listened to the words being spoken now, trying to stitch their meanings together from his fragmented memories.

“Maitimo…”

 _Maitimo?_  That combination of sounds was familiar, but not quite as familiar as the voice that spoke them, which seemed to weave its way through his very being, with a brightness that he had almost forgotten. And then suddenly memory was returning, a flood of mingled pain and love and fear and hope, all the experiences of an old life that was somehow both his and someone else’s. He breathed in, and opened his eyes.

The world seemed dazzlingly bright, and for a moment he was blinded, the light painfully sharp and new. His vision was unfocussed at first, coloured shapes and spots dancing across his field of view. But then he began to be able to discern objects, picked out in sharp detail, sharper, it seemed, even than  _before_. And now he could remember that  _before_ , he could see it as vividly as he could see the face that looked down at him from above. It was a pale, rounded face, with a serious brow and large blue eyes, currently wide with concern. It was framed by thick, dark hair braided with bright gold. As he looked, a tentative smile began to appear, tempered with nervous laughter, those familiar blue eyes welling up slightly with joyful tears.

“Maitimo! You’re back! I thought…” he tailed off.

Maitimo took a deep breath. “Fin – Findekáno.” His voice cracked a little at the edges, stiff and new and slightly unfamiliar sounding. “I think I am.”

————

“ _You_  go in my stead, Findekáno. Bring him back to me. Please?”

Nerdanel had chosen not to go with him. She would not face Námo, she said, not after what he had done, what he was still doing, would not show the submissive gratitude that the Valar had intended to inspire in her. When she was campaigning for the release of her sons she was proud and fierce, and seemed to burn with determined purpose. Then one day, an unexpected messenger had arrived from the Valar, saying that Mandos intended to release Maitimo. It was a calculated move, that much was obvious to them both, a gesture intended both to demonstrate the compassion of the Valar and to silence her. (For what mother could complain at the release of her son? What mother would not feel joy and gratitude?) Yet at the same time, they knew, Manwë was subtly exerting his control, by withholding the release of her other sons. Even Nerdanel had acknowledged that it was clever, even as she wept with joy that Maitimo was allowed to return, mingled with frustration. Yet even though there were tears in her eyes, thought Findekáno, she appeared utterly in control, her head held high and her voice even and restrained.

And so Findekáno left Tirion, barely believing that the event he had not quite dared to hope for through the long years since his own return would truly come to pass at last. The journey to Lórien had not been an eventful one. But that had only left room for the creeping doubts that were already beginning to assail him. Would Maitimo even know him? His own memories had taken time to reassemble themselves after he had been released, and he had heard tales of people who were never quite the same again. Would  _he_  know Maitimo? Surely he would, he thought. And yet, anxiety still gnawed at his heart, and he tried desperately to fix every detail of his cousin at the front of his mind. The precise shade of his eyes and hair, the sound of his voice, the careless laughter of his younger years. The slight roundness of his lower lip, and how it had felt when it was pressed against his own in a passionate kiss. Even the things he did not want to remember. How the knife had felt in his hand as he sawed through the bone and sinew of Maitimo’s wrist, his fingers slippery and bright with blood. Staring at an empty, ashen horizon, even as he told himself that he would see many-coloured banners there, riding to their aid. Seeing nothing. All he had heard of Maitimo’s later deeds. All the things he did not want to believe.

Two smiling Maiar, in the form of beautiful but silent young women, met him at the gates of Lórien. They took one of his hands each, greeting him as though they were well aware of the hour of his arrival, although he had sent no word ahead of him. They wore pale grey cloaks and hoods, although the day was warm and bright, and handed Findekáno one too. He put it on without a word, drawing the hood over his head respectfully. He wondered briefly if his mother, father and sister had been given similar cloaks to wear when they had come for him; he supposed they had, although he could remember little of that day.

The gardens were beautiful, he thought, but too quiet. The sunlight seemed to have an almost unnaturally crisp quality as it streamed down onto perfect, unblemished flowers, bright as the coloured sweets the market traders in Tirion had slipped him as a child, with not a petal out of place. They looked as though they would not move in the wind, if there ever was wind here, which he somehow doubted. He found himself watching his feet, treading only hesitantly on the perfectly green grass, every blade flawless and identical. 

He was led into a wide, paved circle of stone arches, almost a pavilion, but open to the sky above. His guides promptly left him, fading discretely into the shadows in the alcoves. In the centre of the circle stood a single tall figure, also robed and hooded in grey, although a darker, richer grey than the pale fabric Findekáno had been given. The figure turned as he approached, and beneath the hood Findekáno could see high, bone-white cheekbones and eyes that were a deep, disconcerting black, all pupil with no whites or irises. This must be Námo, he realised. The Vala smiled graciously, revealing perfectly even white teeth.

“Findekáno. You are welcome here.”

Findekáno suppressed a shudder, and forced his face into a smile, the black eyes seeming to draw him in. Then Námo inclined his head, breaking eye contact, and Findekáno noticed for the first time what was behind him. He caught his breath.

There was a broad, rectangular stone table, supported by ornately carved pillars. On the table lay a motionless figure, robed in white, arms neatly folded across his chest. Flame-red hair spilled across the stone, bright against pale skin and cloth.

With a muffled cry, Findekáno ran towards the table, his eyes fixed on Maitimo, his dear face so familiar and yet strange, as if something were missing from it. Something that made Findekáno stop with his hands positioned in mid-air above his cousin, even as he reached out to touch him. He stared, trying to place what was wrong. By all appearances, nothing was different, down to the positions of the scattering of freckles across Maitimo’s cheeks. The jagged silver scars that had crossed his face were gone, but Findekáno had expected that. He had a right hand again, but Findekáno had expected that too. Gently, hesitantly, he laid his hand on Maitimo’s arm. It felt cold, and almost entirely unlike flesh, living or dead. As though it were not Maitimo, but a very lifelike copy, carved from wax. And he was so still, no breath moving his chest up and down, no pulse in the lifeless arm. Findekáno had to restrain himself from recoiling in disgust as he withdrew his hand, disturbed. He turned back to Námo, looking up at him. “Is he…?”

“Alive? No. Dead? Also no. He is merely  _separated_ , his new hröa waiting to receive his fëa.”

Findekáno wondered if he was supposed to find this comforting. When he did not reply, Námo placed himself at the other side of the table from Findekáno. Setting Maitimo’s arms gently at his sides, he laid a long, pale hand at the centre of his chest. Then without moving his lips, he began to sing. The song cut through Findekáno, recalling everything about his cousin that he knew, and more, everything he had once known, or suspected, or theorised. Things that they had shared, things that Maitimo had shared with others. Thoughts and memories and a bright glow that was everything that made him Maitimo. Dark things and light things, happiness and excruciating, endless pain. Findekáno simply stood there, entranced by the experience. It was a long time before he even noticed that the song had words. They did not seem important. What had his own fëa sounded like? He thought it could surely not be as beautiful and heart-breaking as this.

Suddenly, a slight motion caught Findekáno’s gaze. Maitimo’s eyes were moving, a tiny stirring beneath his eyelids. Now his skin looked like skin should, and Findekáno could see that he was breathing. Námo was drawing back, the song ending, and Findekáno rushed forward and clasped Maitimo’s hands in his own. The skin felt softer than his memory of it, no longer calloused from the hilt of a sword. But on the left palm Findekáno could feel that the flesh was strangely puckered. He turned it over curiously. The skin was scarred over, ridged and uneven, and Findekáno recognised the marks as burns. He gasped, involuntarily. _So the rumours were true…_

“ _That_ particular wound cannot be healed by my power, or any other within the confines of Arda. Even the slow march of the ages will never smooth away the scar.” Findekáno heard Námo’s voice from somewhere above his head, but when he turned to look, the Vala had disappeared. He turned back to Maitimo, holding his hands, whispering his name. For a long time nothing happened, and Findekáno began to feel a slight flicker of dread. Had something gone wrong? But then those silver eyes were flickering open, focussing on his face, staring at him first in confusion, then in something that could only be recognition. Relief flooded over Findekáno, and he laughed, even as he felt his eyes fill with tears. For a moment he had no idea what to say.

“Maitimo! You’re back! I thought…”

“Fin – Findekáno. I think I am.”

———

Maitimo sat beside the fire, staring into the flames, as the sun set and the darkness gathered. Findekáno busied himself with heating a kettle of water. Days were shorter now, and even travelling in the small pony cart that Findekáno had driven to get there they would have to spend several nights on the road back to Tirion. In truth, however, Maitimo was glad that they were not making the journey by foot or on horseback. His legs still felt a little clumsy and unfamiliar, and he could not quite hide the occasional stumble from Findekáno. 

"Rest assured, you are coping far better than I did" Findekáno said, grimacing. "Apparently, the first time I tried to stand up unaided after my return, I fell flat on my face, as Irissë never seems to tire of telling people." Maitimo could not help but smile. But it quickly turned to a frown. After that initial moment of waking, something in Findekáno’s manner was different, his cheerfulness perhaps somewhat forced. He seemed awkward, his motions deliberate and cautious around Maitimo, as if he were fragile, breakable. And Findekáno spoke only of mundane things, of the doings of the lords and ladies of Arafinwë’s court, of street festivals in Tirion, of trade relations with the Vanyar. But underneath his breezy humour, Maitimo felt sure, was an undercurrent of apprehension. A subtle tension hung between them, filled with unsaid things and deeds waiting to be done.

Findekáno handed him a mug of tea, and he took it with his left hand, out of long habit. For a long, suspended instant their hands touched, Findekáno’s fingertips brushing gently against his wrist. It was only a momentary contact, but in that moment Maitimo felt not the brush of Findekáno’s fingers, but the gentle nudge of his fëa against his own, warm and beautiful, boundlessly kind. Then suddenly it was gone again, and there was scalding tea slopping over both their hands. Findekáno cried out, but Maitimo, to his surprise, felt nothing. He felt so much, he thought, in this new body. Colours seemed almost painful to look at, sounds burst into his consciousness with greater force than ever before. And yet, the palm and fingers of his left hand felt nothing. He knew why, of course. Setting the cup down, he opened and closed his fist, flexing his fingers over the mass of silver scar tissue that was his left palm, trailing the fingers of his right over it. Nothing. Findekáno sat down in front of him, taking both his hands in his. Again Maitimo felt the brush of his spirit, soft and familiar this time, although no less bright. Findekáno stared down at their bunched hands in consternation. “You should really learn to use the right one again” he chided gently.

Maitimo smiled ruefully. “I may well, given time. But I am certain I shall be left-handed until the ending of the world, even if the right works better.”

There was a short silence, thick with tension that almost seemed to crackle in the air between them. Finally he could bear it no longer.

“Findekáno. Why did you come here for me?”

Findekáno stared at him. “Why do you think?”

“That’s just it though. You loved me, once. But that was before - ” he stopped, the words sticking in his throat. “You died because of me. In pain, because I couldn’t come to your aid. I should have been there. I should have saved you - ” he closed his eyes, pressing his knuckles hard into the sockets in frustration, “ – but I failed.” He repeated it a little louder. “I failed you, Findekáno.”

“Yet here I am.” His voice was gentle. “I forgave you long ago.”

“You had no reason to.”

“No. But I did anyway.”

Maitimo looked away, uncomfortable. “You said that before, once” he muttered. “Are you sure you want to make the same mistake again?”

“Maitimo. Look at me.” Findekáno cupped Maitimo’s chin and turned his face towards himself, so that Maitimo was forced to make eye contact. Findekáno’s gaze was suddenly stormy. “No self-pity. Understood?” Maitimo opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a glare. “I made my choice, and I’ve been waiting for long enough for this. Thousands of years. So do not try to ask me if I am  _sure_. My love for you is the one thing I am sure about in these times.”

Maitimo frowned. “These times? What has happened?”

Findekáno did not answer immediately. “I don’t know whether - ”

“Fin, you’re going to have to tell me at some point. Kindly do not try to shield me from the truth.”

“Alright, but I would have preferred… anyway.” He took a deep breath. “The political situation in Tirion is… sensitive. Ships are arriving from across the sea every day. And there are those who are reimbodied. The mixing reignites old rivalries, and the Valar  _benevolently_  stir the pot.” The bitterness in his voice took Maitimo by surprise. “Your mother has been agitating for your release, and that of your brothers” continued Findekáno. “Irissë too. Her son is also being held, indefinitely. They have been fearless, but to little effect. Your release was… a gesture. But not a gesture of compassion on Manwë’s part. I’m sorry,” he said, seeing Maitimo’s expression. “If you were hoping to see your brothers again.”

Maitimo didn’t know what to say. And yet, he could not truly say that he was surprised. “All of them?” he asked finally. “I would have thought that at least Macalaurë…”

Findekáno looked pained. “Macalaurë is…”

“What? Is what?”

“He’s… not there.”

“You mean he made it back to Tirion? He came on one of the ships?”

“No. Maitimo.” Findekáno’s face was grave. “I mean he never left.”

“He’s  _still there?_ ”

Findekáno nodded gravely. “As far as we know. Your mother looked for news, at first, for any hint of him, from the new arrivals. But all she heard were terrible things, stories about him, about  _you_ …” Findekáno’s face was twisted with anguish.

Maitimo looked him in the eye. “Whatever she heard, it’s probably true. Either that or the truth is even worse.”

Findekáno returned his gaze, steadfast. “I know what you did. I care not.”

Looking into Findekáno’s eyes, he saw the firelight reflected there, the dancing flames bright against the blue, filled with steely determination. Sitting down, their faces were at the same height, and for a moment there was nothing but the current of wordless communication that flowed between them. Maitimo felt a bloom of affection for Findekáno, and longed once again for… what did he long for? He did not quite know. For things to be as they had been? To return to the Treelit, carefree days of their youth? But that, he knew, was impossible. The Valar could bring him back, perhaps, but they could not recall the person he had been then. That person, he knew with a sickening certainty, was dead, utterly and irreversibly erased from the world.

And yet, Findekáno still loved him, beyond reason. That much he knew. Tentatively, he raised his right hand and laid it gently against Findekáno’s cheek, a dark curl tickling his index finger as he drank in the texture of the smooth, creamy skin. He tried not to imagine that beloved face caked in soot and dried blood, the bones which suddenly seemed so fragile cracking, the skull split by a terrible black mace. But the thoughts pushed their way into his mind, regardless, turning his stomach.

Findekáno’s forehead furrowed a little. “What is it?”

Maitimo started. “Nothing… I just… I can’t bear to think of you in pain, dying. Because of me.”

Findekáno sighed, closing his own hand over Maitimo’s on his cheek, then bringing it to his lips to kiss Maitimo's knuckles. “It’s not as if  _you’ve_  never been in pain because of  _me_.”

“Don’t say that, Fin. It’s not the same, and you know it.”

Findekáno did not reply, but simply kissed him, his arms twining around Maitimo’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss was hesitant and slow at first, the lightest brushing of their lips, as if each were relearning the steps of a half-remembered dance. But with the heightened sensation of his new body, Maitimo felt himself being drawn deeper into the kiss, their lips crushing together and parting, tongues flicking against teeth. Now his world containing only Findekáno, bright and overwhelming, so that he could not tell where one of them ended and the other began.

 _Just for tonight_ , he thought,  _everything will be all right_. Tomorrow they would carry on towards Tirion, and then they would face the people together. But until then… he could allow himself this. Things would never be as they had once been; that he knew. But in that moment, he found he did not care.

———

They woke up the next morning curled together on a small single bed roll spread over the ground. The pale grey cloak that Findekáno had been given was wrapped around them both like a blanket, tangled in their entwined legs. Findekáno opened his eyes, inhaling the warm air that surrounded their bodies under the cloak. His face was pressed into the hollow of Maitimo’s neck, the inexplicable scent of candlewax that always seemed to cling to his hair tickling his nose as Findekáno gently lifted a single vivid copper-coloured lock, admiring the way the morning sunlight gleamed off each individual hair.

He dropped the lock of hair and turned back, leaning on his elbow to look down at Maitimo’s sleeping face, all worry briefly smoothed away. He smiled.

Having raised his head, he shivered, the early morning air bitingly cold outside their small pocket of body heat. Carefully, so as not to disturb Maitimo, he reached for his pack and pulled out an extra blanket, tucking the corners meticulously around them both. Then he curled up next to Maitimo again, draping an arm over his chest and closing his eyes, for a moment perfectly happy.

They were, after all, in no hurry to return to Tirion.


End file.
